


Wrong

by anathemafen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Emerald Graves, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, One F-bomb dunno if that should change the rating, Solas makes me so sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 15:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemafen/pseuds/anathemafen
Summary: Solas has a silent panic attack, Lavellan quells it with a touch.





	Wrong

He has been looking up at a tree. One of the trees.

One of the _graves_ , he has to correct himself. 

It is a beautiful grave, resplendent with, ironically, life. Moss strewn branches and green leaves fluttering lazily in the soft wind, a beautiful specimen, a beautiful shrine, a silent yet deafening reminder, a rightful accusation. 

Solas clenches and unclenches his hand, and with a small shake of his head he tries to focus on the dapples of sunlight warming the trunk instead. Shoots of Elfroot have sprouted up around it and idly he thinks to harvest some for Lavellan, for potions, for…

_A grave._

Were they red, the roots? If he pulled the earth away would he find it still saturated in blood? Would he find the bones of long-dead warriors, skulls stretched to silently scream up at him? 

_You did this._

A small puff of air leaves his lips as he drags his eyes from the greenery, chest tight and self-contempt raging. 

The Dales. The Exalted Plains. The Emerald fucking Graves. 

It had been a swift punch to the gut entering the land again, war-torn and _wrong_. All wrong. 

Solas has to lean on his staff as the forest seems to press in on him, the cold, crooked fingers of despair slowly scraping down his spine. His lungs inhale but he feels starved for air, his legs remain straight but he feels unsteady, there is no danger but his heart is relentless as it batters against his chest. 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

But he cannot, the air is stagnant in this world, in this time it feels dense and jagged. Everything he ever knew he ever saw he ever heard, it’s all gone. _Gone_. Because of him, his actions, his decisions, his-

A touch.

A small wisp against his skin, and he feels fingertips shyly caress his forearm, a small question as they move towards his wrist. Slowly he opens his eyes and when he doesn’t move away, a small hand melds into his own.

Lavellan traces the lines of his palm and smooths her caress over his callouses, a soft touch that grounds him. 

And he knows he should pull away, he knows he should _want_ to pull away, but he doesn’t. 

He swallows thickly, thinking of the blood staining his hands being transferred to hers, viscous and black in its immensity and he does go to pull away then but she follows. Her other hand flutters to his waist and the feel of the anchor - of _his_ magic - familiar and comforting. 

Just as she is familiar and comforting. 

And he wonders not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, how this little creature was able to enthrall him so thoroughly, his very being singing against her touch.

His heart slowly steadies as her head comes to lie against his chest, panic reeling backwards as her arms encircle his waist, and finally air is able to settle within his lungs as she peeks up at him, concern ripe within her eyes. 

Brushing a strand of hair from her face he cups her cheek and looks down at her with a fondness he hasn’t felt in millennia – an adoration he hasn’t felt in, perhaps, ever. 

“You disappeared,” she tells him and Solas nods. He watches her watching him, and he is far too old for the flutter it brings to his chest. “Is it the history here? I know I-”

He cuts her off with a kiss because she _doesn’t_ know, and how could he tell her he is responsible for the blood that fertilized this earth? That each grave marks not only an Elvhen fallen but a choice he made? That everything she knows, thinks, was shaped by is _wrong_? That everywhere she travels, maps, explores is _wrong_? That this world – her world – and everyone in it is just so desperately _wrong_ …

He drops his staff to pull her close humming when her soft lips curve into a smile and small vibrations accompany the happy little mewls she makes. 

And all so suddenly Solas, along with his anxiety, is nullified because he cannot possibly comprehend how Lavellan could be wrong.


End file.
